


Halloween

by captainodonewithyou



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Halloween, Haunted House, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainodonewithyou/pseuds/captainodonewithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln and Daisy investigate an odd reading in a spooky old house that might just be haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Only the first part of this was betaed because this took me WAY longer to write than it should have, so please accept my humble apology for any errors. Thank you all, and Happy Halloween!
> 
> (also I lost my italics which makes me sad but not sad enough to go through and fix the problem, oops)

“I am  not  going in there, Daisy.”

 

She opens her mouth to argue and his scowl hardens as he hastens to interrupt.

 

“You can parrot whatever the hell ‘ Coulson says’ to your heart’s content, or you can listen when I remind you that I don’t give a single shit what Coulson says.  I am not getting my ass kicked by an angry spirit by choice.”

 

It is growing dark fast, and the rustle of dry leaves around them serves as a perfect soundtrack for the eerie mansion they face.  She is curious, but she isn’t exactly keen on the idea of searching after the unknown through a rotting house without power past dusk—so the arguing with her partner has gone beyond wearing at her nerves.

 

“It’s an Inhuman, not a spirit, and you are a  scaredy cat ,” she informs him, shifting forward and away from their van.  His deep glare doesn’t shift.

 

“I’m a scaredy cat who values my ass,” he responds with equal fervor, and she almost doesn’t swallow the laughter that bubbles in her throat at the absolute deadpan way he delivers the words.  He mirrors her movements closer to the door with his own, leaning back against the car and crossing his arms firmly. “Those readings were not Inhuman.  You heard Bobbi—it is nothing she has seen before.”

 

Daisy meets his glare for a moment, reading the lines in his expression and looking for any bit of leeway she might be able to pull.

 

His resolve is solid concrete.

 

“Fine,” she shrugs, turning away from him and towards the front door of the house, cheery barn red turned a shade closer to blood in the setting sun, “I’ll go without you.”

 

She tromps a few steps through the thick carpet of leaves--she has no intention of going in without him at her back and when he lets out a noise of protest behind her she smirks and stops.

 

“Who knew  you were superstitious,” she muses as he clomps exaggeratedly slowly up beside her, and she can practically feel his scowl on the back of her neck as she continues her route for the door, this time with her partner resentfully in tow.

 

“I’m not superstitious—I’m  reasonable. ”

 

“You are also part Power Tower, dumbass.  Nothing is going to hurt either of us.”

 

She steps carefully over the rotted wood once they reach the door, listening to the creak of the house and straining to sense any noises from within.  Lincoln doesn’t miss her hesitation.

 

“Scared?” He prompts with a raise of a brow, and it is her turn to glare at him as she reaches for the rusted handle to demonstrate exactly how Not-Scared she is.

 

It sticks, and she jiggles it—until it breaks, falling to the porch in front of her.

 

The door falls open slowly, creaking, widening into the blackness of the house behind it—the lowering sun behind them reaching only just past the dusty threshold.

 

“I guess our very solid Inhuman friend used the backdoor,” Lincoln suggests with faux cheeriness, and Daisy sinks an elbow into his gut.  He is closer than she expects so she hits him harder than she fully intends, but he lets out an immensely satisfying noise of distress and she doesn’t entirely regret it.

 

She reaches for the gun at her thigh, snapping the lock free on her holster and running her fingers along the cool metal before pressing forward, electing to ignore whatever Lincoln mumbles dryly beneath his breath—something about bullets and shooting air.

 

The darkness is suffocating at first, blackness pressing in at her from all sides—she blinks quickly, disoriented, willing her pupils to widen.

 

Something crackles and flashes blue beside her and she starts, raising her hands and feeling her molecules buzz as her eyes seek out the source of the disruption.

 

“Woah, easy,” Lincoln warns—now lightened eyes following her hand movements.  His own palms are raised, crackling with light blue energy.  “Sure you aren’t scared?”

 

He is less accusing this time, softer.

 

She doesn’t answer, peeling her attention from him to peer around the now dimly lit room.  There is a stairwell a few paces in front of them, an open doorway into a room filled with worn-sheet covered furniture to the left.  The windows visible from the front of the house are all blocked with similar mismatched worn sheets—explaining the solid darkness.  She turns slowly, examining the floor for rot before glancing back at the door they came through.

 

It is closed.

 

She can’t explain the chill that shoots down her spine.

 

“Guess you aren’t as scared as you’re letting on,” she muses, only hearing the quiver of her voice echo in her skull as Lincoln follows her movements before looking quizzically back at her, shadowy brow furrowed in confusion.

 

“You’re right.  I’m a hundred percent  more scared than I’m letting on.  Glad you can tell.”

 

She ignores his sarcasm, eyes still glued to the blocked exit.

 

“Why’d you shut the door?”

 

A pause.

 

“I definitely didn’t shut the door.”

 

She swallows, shaking her head and trying to get Lincoln’s concerns out of it.  It is the season for spooks and that paired with his incessant anxiety about this mission is drawing her to assumptions she would never normally make.

 

She motions at him to move with her towards the door, lighting the darkness holding it hostage as she examines it, running her fingers across the rough space the doorknob used to fill.

 

“Wind must have got it.  I can knock it open when we leave,” she murmurs more to herself than to him.  He doesn’t answer, and when she glances up at him he quickly masks his concern with a nod.

 

And then there is a creak.

 

She moves for the staircase before she is even sure he is following her, staring up at the ceiling where the noise has come from.  Her head is back with her, for the most part—there is an Inhuman living in the deathtrap of a house.  It is her job to get to that Inhuman and offer them whatever help they need.

 

She steps carefully up the stairs, watching where she steps once Lincoln catches up to her, still crackling.  The light he provides is dim at best—fluttering inconsistently around the room, but it is light nonetheless. 

 

There is another door at the top of the staircase that opens with a nudge, leading into what seems to be a stretching hallway, lined with more heavy wooden doors.  Lincoln clomps up behind her, footsteps obnoxiously heavy.

 

“Oh my god, could you be any louder?” she hisses.

 

“Its S.H.I.E.L.D.’s boots!” he retaliates, and she sighs.

 

She stops, and so does Lincoln.

 

“Is someone here?”

 

If there is, she knows they have already heard them—but her voice feels eerily small in the quietly dark hall, and the only response is her own words bouncing emptily back at her.

 

“We’re here to help you.” She adds, a little louder, even though she doesn’t expect it to earn a reply.  She feels Lincoln shift uneasily nearer to her.

 

There is still no response.

 

She starts down the hallway, slower than before, door on the far left catching her eye.  It is the only one open—if only just a crack.

 

There is a sudden slamming bang, and they both start—Lincoln’s powers flickering oddly as they turn to face the noise.

 

The door at the top of the stairs—the one she’d made absolutely certain to leave open—is shut tight.

 

“I’m pretty damn sure the wind didn’t do that,” Lincoln mutters, voice quivering with his still fluctuating powers. 

 

She stares at his hands, watching the light flicker in and out of his shaking palms, before squinting up at his pale face—suddenly far more concerned about  him than the door.

 

“Are you  okay ?”

 

He shrugs but it looks like the motion weighs the world, and he sways slightly, lights dancing in his palms dimming so she can hardly see him through the darkness.  She reaches forward instinctively, ignoring the prickle of static that bites her skin as she grasps his sinking shoulders.

 

“Lincoln stop,” she orders as he stumbles, staying up only because of the hands she is now digging into his shoulders.  “Turn it off, you’re hurting yourself.”

 

He’s been a flashlight for her half the damn night before and the sudden drain makes absolutely no sense, but regardless of the cause, forcing the light out of him definitely isn’t helping.

 

“I’m alright,” he protests, “really, I’m fine.  We won’t be able to see—“

 

There is another slam and he leans into her, letting his powers fade out so he doesn’t shock her as he reaches to steady himself on her shoulders.

 

But they don’t sink into darkness.

 

She slips her arm around his waist, holding tight to him as she peers down the hall, back into that end room.  Familiar blue light crackles behind the crack of the door, flickering through the hall.

 

Lincoln groans, dropping his forehead to press against the hands now biting into her skin of her shoulders.

 

“Sit down,” she murmurs, helping lower him to the floor.  He leans against the closest wall and she reluctantly lets go of him as she kneels in front of him, reaching to cradling his jaw as she turns up his head and peers into his drained eyes, just glistening from the light dancing down the hall. She runs her fingers softly through his hair as she pulls away, rising to her feet. “Stay put.”

 

“You got it,” he mumbles, half smiling drunkenly up at her, and she scowls.

 

“Not funny.”

 

“It’s a  little funny.”

 

She fights the urge to continue the argument, pulling herself the rest of the way up and glancing again at the light seeping from the door at the end of the hall.  Whatever this Inhuman—or, she’s thinking more and more, IN-human, is capable of—it is clearly dangerous.  She is nervous—her skin prickles anxiously—but her fear for Lincoln has sent adrenaline racing through her veins and it overpowers whatever other fears she might have as she moves towards the door.  She doesn’t allow herself time to think, reaching forward to shove the door open with one hand, fingers up and molecules buzzing.

 

It swings open and she steps through, momentarily blinded by the bright light. 

 

Then everything goes black.  She swirls on her heel, anticipating the next move—but not fast  enough as the door slams hard, echoing through the house.  Her fingers scrape solid wood as she searches for the cool handle.

 

It doesn’t budge.

 

She can’t even  see the door through her protesting eyes, but she can sense her nose is nearly brushing it.

 

“ Shit .”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Lincoln’s voice is muffled but on the other side of the door.

 

“You are supposed to be recharging,” she retorts, and she hears him scoff.

 

“Cute.”

 

“Get out of the way, I’m going to blow the door out.”

 

Silence answers her and she hesitates.

 

“Hey? Did you move?”

 

“Yeah,” his voice comes back, more distant, “Go ahead.”

 

She raises her hands, feeling the door in front of her for aim before taking a few steps back and listening to its solid molecular buzz and urging it faster until it shatters outwards.

 

The hall is glowing blue again, electricity dancing from his fingertips when she steps through the doorway.

 

“Ready to get the hell out?” He asks, raising a brow.  His cheeks have color again but his eyes are a shade off—though she thinks he could certainly look worse for the wear, given the state she left him in.

 

Still, something nags at her.

 

“Its powerful, whatever is here,” she answers reluctantly.  “We should finish sweeping at least.”

 

He stares at her dubiously.

 

“You seriously want to keep  looking for it, after what it just did to me?”

 

He’s right—but finding whatever ‘ it’ is is why they are  here , and she hates to think of leaving without finding  something to show for it.

 

“Maybe it would be safer for you out by the car,” she suggests hesitantly, and she thinks she detects a hint of annoyance flashing through his expression.

 

“Yeah, it  definitely would be, but then you’re blind.”

 

He flashes his hands to demonstrate, flooding them into and out of darkness in a blink.

 

She sighs apologetically.

 

“Ten more minutes, grouchy.  Then we can hightail it outta here.”

 

Her feet creak on the floorboards as she moves back towards the stairwell.  The doorway has fallen back open.

 

“Did you see something come through here?” She asks, glancing over her shoulder at Lincoln, who is following behind her. He shakes his head, clearly still put out.  

 

She stops at the top of the stairs, turning to face him.

 

“Look, I’m sorry.  I know you didn’t want to come in here.  But whatever it did to you clearly didn’t have any long-term effects.  Let’s just find something to show Coulson other than your shitty mood so we can get out and not worry about this ever again.”

 

She reaches to brush her fingers along his cheek reassuringly, but he pulls away and turns his glare to the ground—before letting out a long breath and looking back at her, softer.

 

“Fine.  One more sweep and then out for good,” he must catch the hurt in her eyes because he softens further, brow furrowing. “I’m sorry.  I’m just… tired.”

 

She nods, wanting to reach out for him again but resisting the urge, fisting her hands at her sides.

 

She tries the other doors before leading him back down the stairs.

 

Through the room with the covered furniture there is another door that leads to a rusted kitchen that is entirely still.  Lincoln’s powers flicker eerily off the countertop that Daisy is certain hasn’t been touched in years—when she brushes a hand along it, dust cakes her fingers. 

 

“Gross,” she mutters, and Lincoln makes a noise of agreement.

 

The house is  silent as they circle—the only sound in her echoing footsteps.

 

The prickling anxiety refuses to leave her spine.

 

“Maybe we scared whatever it was away,” Lincoln suggests once they have circled back to the main hall.  He looks considerably relieved, probably that whatever it is hasn’t decided to make him a human power socket again.  She can’t blame him. “Let’s just go.  If something was here, it heard us and made its escape upstairs.”

 

He is in front of the door, but takes a silent step aside as he motions towards it.

 

“I’ll let you do the honors.”

 

She is looking at his boots.

 

“I thought those didn’t fit,” she muses quietly as she nods at them, fear suddenly rearing in her chest.

 

She glances up at him, into the eyes that are just a little too dark—that she’d attributed to his drained exhaustion.

 

This time she knows she doesn’t imagine the annoyance that bites as his expression.

 

“I tied them tighter while I was on the ground so you wouldn’t  yell at me anymore.  Come on, you’re letting the creepiness get to you.  Let’s get  out .”

 

She considers his words, taking a slow breath and letting it out.  She’s  paranoid .

 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, looking back at him.  He’s exhausted—he’s been drained and she hasn’t forgotten how weak it had rendered him.  “I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Seriously, it’s fine.  I just want to get out.”

 

She nods, raising her hands as she focuses on the door, buzz finding her senses easily through the still air.

 

Through Lincoln, even though his powers are still buzzing, lighting the room—and he is always the loudest damn thing in the room.

 

She drops her hands, taking a step back as her heart pounds, blood pulsing loudly through her head.

 

“Where is he?”

 

Whoever is wearing his face in front of her scowls and the anger that lines his face is not Lincoln at  all .

 

She raises her arms as it takes a silent step towards her, not sure what she can actually do but damn sure she’s going to make it think she knows exactly how to stop him.

 

“Tell me what you  did with him,” she repeats, voice coming out startlingly firmer than she expects. 

 

He stops, but the chillingly cold look on his face remains.

 

She thinks it would less terrifying if it wasn’t  his face.

 

“Tell me where he is or I’ll take you out and find him myself,” she snaps. 

 

“Let me out and I’ll let you find him yourself,” he answers, voice taking on a gravelly tone.  She takes another step back and something changes in his eyes.  He sees her fear.

 

She doesn’t wait for him to make the first move, taking off back towards the kitchen and slamming the door behind her, even if she is fairly certain it won’t hold him.  She is wracking her brain for something she might have missed, hurrying to the opposite side and slamming that door closed, too.  The dust shuffles when the air disrupts the room and she leans against the door, hard, straining her eyes against the darkness.  It’s no use and she squeezes them closed, reaching out her other senses instead, feeling the tensions in the air for the familiar resonance.

 

Everything is still.

 

“ Where are you !?” she hisses frustrated under her breath.

 

He is drained.  He has no energy—that’s why she can’t find his buzzing molecules.  She tries to make the reasoning make sense.

 

She refuses to consider the other possibility, heart pounding to get free.

 

Blue light seeps beneath the far door and she presses closer to the one behind her, holding the handle tight in her palm and waiting until the light draws brighter before folding back into one of the sheeted-furniture rooms, pressing the door closed hard behind her.

 

The stairs are to her left, and for the first time she notices a doorway tucked onto its side.

 

The basement.

 

It’s the only place she hasn’t been in the house.

 

The light is nearing the second door and she hurries to the door, not bothering with the handle and sending it shattering.

 

“Lincoln!?” His name echoes down the dark stairwell and she has to feel her way along the wall, listening for a response.  “Lincoln!”

 

She hurries her steps, missing a stair and nearly stumbling headfirst down the rest.  She catches herself on the railing, cringing as it splinters into her palms.

 

“ Daisy .”

 

The word is faint but there, and she forgets about the stinging in her palms, flying down the rest of the stairs and squinting into the darkness.

 

He sparks, just faintly, in the corner and she follows the ghost of the light, stumbling through the darkness that her eyes are finally beginning to adjust through.  She sinks to her knees in front of him, reaching out to run her fingers along his solid jaw.

 

Cool relief floods her.

 

“Thank god,” she murmurs breathily.  “Are you alright? Did it hurt you?”

 

“I’m fine,” he mutters hoarsely.  “I’m alright, really, Daisy—“ he clutches at her wrist when she continues to press her fingers into every inch of him she can reach, making certain he is real and searching for wounds.  “You’re the one who is bleeding,” he adds, brushing his thumb lightly across her burning palm.

 

She shakes her head.

 

“Forget it.  We need to go.”

 

She shifts to a squatting position, snaking an arm around his back and heaving upwards.  He can hardly carry his weight at all and she struggles to hold him up.

 

“I can probably—“  His palm sparks just slightly, and she shakes her head, hard.

 

“No.  Save your energy.”

 

She can’t see a foot in front of her but they stand more a chance of getting out blind than getting out with him unconscious.  She finds the stairs because the blue light, the energy being drained from him—shines from the top.

 

“Fucking leech,” Lincoln growls in a manner that might be intimidating, were he not relying entirely on her to hold him up.

 

“Save the fighting words for when I’m not the one who is gonna end up doing your fighting for you, alright?”

 

She is on the second step, helping him mount them painstakingly behind her.

 

“Can’t you blow it out?” He asks weakly as the light grows brighter, “it’s using my powers to materialize—you don’t seem to have any trouble manipulating my energy in any other scenario.”

 

“Shouldn’t you have some sort of goddamn firewall installed to keep the viruses out?” she retorts snappily, dragging him up another stair.  Her shoulders ache under his weight and either she has outsassed him or he doesn’t have enough energy to waste his breath on responding.  She guesses it is the second one.

 

The thing is still wearing his face when it appears at the top of the stairwell, and they are still hardly halfway there.

 

“Did you makeout with it and just know it wasn’t me?” Lincoln asks faintly, amusement evident.

 

“If I weren’t  carrying you up a fucking flight of stairs, I’d be flipping you off.”

 

He stumbles clumsily up another step and nearly falls backwards back down them trying to relieve the pressure on her shoulders—she clutches his waist tight until he steadies.

 

“I’m touched.”

 

Her eyes are still on the thing watching them from the top of the stairs, cold and unmoving.

 

“I can absorb the rest of his energy, if I want to.”

 

It talks quietly in the same gravelly voice from before. 

 

“I will if I have to.  Or, you can let me out and I’ll let him go.”

 

She isn’t sure that letting it out is an option.

 

“Why don’t you let yourself out?” She asks—part biding Lincoln’s time, part in curiosity.

 

“Someone has to stay behind.”

 

Its tone doesn’t change but the words make Daisy’s blood run cold.

 

It was trying to draw her out without Lincoln because then Lincoln couldn’t  leave .  If they get out, it can’t.

 

It flickers and disappears and for a moment, she sees their exit in her mind’s eye, now curtained in darkness.  She urges Lincoln forward faster, the openness in front of them filling her with a fresh burst of energy.

 

“I’m probably going to cry like a baby if there isn’t acetaminophen in the first aid kit.  In case you were wondering.”

 

She wasn’t, but it is reassuring to hear him speak lightheartedly as they mount the final stairs with no little ease.  She slows a moment, giving him a chance to catch his breath, but he urges her to keep moving.

 

Her eyes are still straining as they move towards the front door, and she thinks she makes out a vein of moonlight seeping under the cracks.  She imagines them back in the car, hitting the gas-- nearly  there. 

 

Then everything is bright and blinding and she is stumbling to stop, reaching a hand out to block herself from the shining thing that has materialized back in front of them.

 

Her hand tingles as it plunges through the deep mahogany cotton of the shirt it is imitating, as if it isn’t  there .

 

She draws back, shoulder pressing into Lincoln’s chest, staring between her hand and the monster as her mind whirs through every shitty grey ghost hunting show she’s watched in the late hours of the night when no real television is on.

 

It is depleting Lincoln’s powers because it is feeding off the energy .

 

It is a goddamn spirit.

 

“Get out,” she mutters beneath her breath to Lincoln, staring into the dead eyes of the creature in front of her and straining her ears, struggling to locate strains of Lincoln’s power within it that she can work with.  “Get to the door and I’ll blow it.”

 

She focuses, straining her mind harder than she has been straining her eyes and finally catching a familiar resonance floating in front of her.

 

She clings to it, and the spirit flickers--almost imperceptibly. 

 

“Daisy--” 

 

She clenches her teeth, fighting to hold onto her upper hand.

 

“I can’t take it out when it’s using your powers.  Get  out , Lincoln.”

 

This time he listens.  She is still drawing his power back from the creature and she doesn’t lift her attention from the spirit, but she hears his clumsy movements away from her.

 

The spirit stares back at her, between her raised fingers and her hard expression with vague bemusement--but doesn’t speak.

 

She gets the most chilling feeling that she is doing  exactly  what it wants.

 

“Are you ready?”  She calls out to Lincoln, not daring to falter her attention from holding the creature in place.

 

He hesitates.

 

“Daisy--” he tries again, concern evident.

 

“Are you  ready ?” she repeats through her teeth.  Her feet are heavy from the exertion and she knows they are both running out of time.

 

“I’m ready.”

 

She takes a grounding breath, fighting to calm her mind to a soft buzz of everything around her.  It’ll just take a moment to blow out the door, a brief window of freedom for the spirit--and she has already drained it considerably.

 

Icy fear bites at the pit of her stomach nonetheless.

 

She holds her free hand towards the sound of the door, relieved to hear Lincoln’s molecules beginning to pick up a speedier buzz beside it.  

 

She takes another long, deep breath.

 

She lets it go and blows out the door in the same moment and it’s there, right there for her to grab again.

 

Her eyes seek out Lincoln instead, settling safely on the other side of the doorframe.

 

The light flickers out.

 

Her heart sinks.

 

“Come on,” Lincoln urges, words flickering anxiously.  “It lost its power source.  It’s gone.”

 

She takes an uneasy step towards the door, listening to the silence pressing in around her again before glancing across the threshold at his still-pale expression, eyes tired but exactly the shade they should be beneath the moonlight.

 

It is  gone .  He’s right.

 

The floor protests beneath her steps as she moves towards the doorway, moonlight touching her feet as she approaches.

 

She lets out a breath of relief as she moves to step over the threshold--and falls back clumsily when she hits something solid.

 

She lands hard on her ass on the creaking wood floor within the house and raises a freshly-bleeding hand quickly when Lincoln’s eyes widen, moving instinctively towards her.

 

“Don’t you dare.” she snaps, stopping him in his tracks outside the door, staring helplessly down at her.

 

She clenches her teeth, staring at the open space between them.

 

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until we figure this out--I could at least come look at your hands--”

 

“No,” she shakes her head hard, but he is still shifting just slightly closer to the doorway.  “Lincoln I swear to god if you come back in here I will never speak to you again.  We don’t know what the hell else is in here--you can’t take that risk.”

 

His fingers brush along the border, and blue light flickers.

 

She sits up straighter, pushing herself to her knees.

 

“Wait,” she reiterates, staring at the place where his fingers sparked. “Just… wait.” 

 

A pause.  She glances at him to find he is staring at his fingers in confusion as well.

 

“Did you do that?  Make those sparks?”

 

He shakes his head slowly.

 

“I’m not trapped,” she mutters, rising clumsily to her feet.  “It needs you.  Your powers.  It’s trying to lure you back in, Lincoln.”

 

“It’s working,” he mutters dryly, looking anxiously back at her, eyes full of concern.  “If you aren’t trapped why can’t you get out?”

 

She glances at a wall, considering blowing it out and dealing with the consequences--and shakes her head roughly to banish the thought.  The infrastructure was hardly there--whole thing could come crumbling on top of her.

 

“It’s there,” she motions between them. “It doesn’t have a form, not without feeding off of you. t needs a form to get  out .”

 

She thinks of how depleted he had seemed in the basement, how sluggish and  drained .  Like almost every ounce of energy had been sucked from him.

 

She wonders where they might be if it had succeeded in running his powers dry--if he’d even be standing in front of her--and the thought sends a rushing chill down her spine.  

 

“Stand back,” she tells Lincoln.  “Off the porch.  By the car, even.”

 

He looks at her dubiously, unmoving.

 

“I’m not above making that an order, newbie,” she adds, but her heart gives a little at the deep lines of concern in his brow.  She takes a tiny step forward, careful not to get too close, raising a hand and hovering it in the space between them.  He watches the movement silently.  “This thing would have killed you.  You know that, right? It would have just taken your place and you’d be the one trapped here for eternity.”

 

He is still so  pale .

 

“If it’s tied to the house--just, please, Lincoln.  Stand back.”

 

He studies her expression for the briefest of moments, before realization sinks into his features.

 

“No,” he snaps, shaking his head indignantly.  “What the hell? You can’t--” he catches himself, eyes drifting guarded over the space between them. “You’ll never get out in time!”

 

“Stand back, Lincoln,” she repeats.  

 

Her mind is made up and it is the  only way.

 

“Please don’t do this.” He pleads, voice small.  “Just wait.  I’ll call the team and we’ll find another way.  You’re being impulsive.”

 

She ignores him, stepping back and studying the decaying wall beside the door, hoping the movement will portray how serious she is.

 

“I’m not going to risk it getting to you again,” she snaps when he doesn’t move.  She is tuning into the creaks of the house, focusing on the resonance that creaks protesting back at her prodding in the same way the floorboards creaked beneath her boots.

 

“I’m not moving,” he tells her wryly, crossing his arms over his chest for emphasis, even as the wood of the house lets out an angry howl that can’t be entirely natural.  The floor begins to quiver beneath her feet and she lets out an angry breath, shifting away from the wall by the door and deeper into the house--to the room beside the kitchen with the furniture draped in sheets.

 

The sheets flutter angrily, as if some sort of wind is gusting through the still room.  Some of them reach out and grasp at her as she moves towards her wall of choice, and she shakes them off with ease--tuning herself to the wall.

 

She doesn’t let herself think again before she gives it a final heave, and all she can hear is the world cracking around her.

 

She opens her eyes, stumbling forward as a beam swings from the ceiling, narrowly missing her skull.  The wall is crumbling outwards and she falls through the splintering wood as more beams come crashing down around her--elbows digging hard into ice-cold dirt, breath knocked out of her. She doesn’t waste time getting her bearings or pulling herself to her feet, shimming forward on her stomach on the cool ground towards safety.

 

Her ankle sticks in something her overstimulated senses have trouble deciphering at first, and she tugs hard to pull it free--only she  can’t .  She pauses, lifting herself on her elbows to survey the situation behind her, trying to ignore the slowly crumbling house--which proves not to be difficult when the thing around her ankle is a yellowing, knotted sheet.

 

She gives another tug, turning herself over onto her back and pulling herself to a sitting position, clawing at the material--but it simply will not give.

 

And with a sudden jolt she is thrown backwards, leg tugged out from under her, and she is being dragged back towards the still crumbling house.  She struggles against it, digging her aching fingers into the ground and writhing against the fabric--but nothing she does affects the sheet, reeling her angrily in.

 

She squeezes her eyes shut as she nears the house.

 

Then something cracks and sizzles and her ankle is free.

 

She opens her eyes as Lincoln’s hands are coming to her shoulder and the burning sheet is retreating back into the house without her--and it’s her turn to cling to him as he helps her to her feet, drawing her limping out of the line of danger.  

 

She wants to still be angry with him--yell at him for being so goddamn stubborn and stupid and  ridiculous , but when she draws away to scold him she takes one look at his exhausted features and her resolves gives.  She crumbles back against the warmth of his chest, looping her arms around him and pressing tight against him.  His arms come around her, drawing her nearer as he circles his thumb reassuringly against her spine.

 

“I think Coulson owes us no less than a week off,” he says into her hair, and she laughs tearily against his chest. 

 

“Two,” she amends, before lifting her head to peer up into his eyes. “Also, let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

He smiles a little, watching her quietly a moment before loosening his hold around her.

 

“Let’s.” 

  
(They are driving away, her cheek is pressed hard to the cool window--and she thinks he might think she has drifted to sleep when he mutters, “I fucking  hate  halloween.”)


End file.
